Chapter 42 - More Surprises

The same evening I received my "abstract" by the hands of a
clerk.

It was an intensely characteristic document. My expenses were
remorselessly calculated downward to shillings and even to pence;
and our unfortunate messenger's instructions in respect to his
expenditure were reduced to a nicety which must have made his
life in America nothing less than a burden to him. In mercy to
the man, I took the liberty, when I wrote back to Mr. Playmore,
of slightly increasing the indicated amount of the figures which
were to appear on the check. I ought to have better known the
correspondent whom I had to deal with. Mr. Playmore's reply
(informing me that our emissary had started on his voyage)
returned a receipt in due form, and the whole of the surplus
money, to the last farthing!

A few hurried lines accompanied the "abstract," and stated the
result of the lawyer's visit to Miserrimus Dexter.

There was no change for the better--there was no change at all.
Mr. Dexter, the brother, had arrived at the house accompanied by
a medical man accustomed to the charge of the insane. The new
doctor declined to give any definite opinion on the case until he
had studied it carefully with plenty of time at his disposal. It
had been accordingly arranged that he should remove Miserrimus
Dexter to the asylum of which he was the proprietor as soon as
the preparations for receiving the patient could be completed.
The one difficulty that still remained to be met related to the
disposal of the faithful creature who had never left her master,
night or day, since the catastrophe had happened. Ariel had no
friends and no money. The proprietor of the asylum could not be
expected to receive her without the customary payment; and Mr.
Dexter's brother "regretted to say that he was not rich enough to
find the money." A forcible separation from the one human being
whom she loved, and a removal in the character of a pauper to a
public asylum--such was the prospect which awaited the
unfortunate creature unless some one interfered in her favor
before the end of the week.

Under these sad circumstances, good Mr. Playmore--passing over
the claims of economy in favor of the claims of
humanity--suggested that we should privately start a
subscription, and offered to head the list liberally himself.

I must have written all these pages to very little purpose if it
is necessary for me to add that I instantly sent a letter to Mr.
Dexter, the brother, undertaking to be answerable for whatever
money was to be required while the subscriptions were being
collected, and only stipulating that when Miserrimus Dexter was
removed to the asylum, Ariel should accompany him. This was
readily conceded. But serious objections were raised when I
further requested that she might be permitted to attend on her
master in the asylum as she had attended on him in the house. The
rules of the establishment forbade it, and the universal practice
in such cases forbade it, and so on, and so on. However, by dint
of perseverance and persuasion, I so far carried my point as to
gain a reasonable concession. During certain hours in the day,
and under certain wise restrictions, Ariel was to be allowed the
privilege of waiting on the Master in his room, as well as of
accompanying him when he was brought out in his chair to take the
air in the garden. For the honor of humanity, let me add that the
liability which I had undertaken made no very serious demands on
my resources. Placed in Benjamin's charge, our subscription-list
prospered. Friends, and even strangers sometimes, opened their
hearts and their purses when they heard Ariel's melancholy story.

The day which followed the day of Mr. Playmore's visit brought
me news from Spain, in a letter from my mother-in-law. To
describe what I felt when I broke the seal and read the first
lines is simply impossible. Let Mrs. Macallan be heard on this
occasion in my place.

Thus she wrote:

"Prepare yourself, my dearest Valeria, for a delightful
surprise. Eustace has justified my confidence in him. When he
returns to England, he returns--if you will let him--to his wife.

"This resolution, let me hasten to assure you, has not been
brought about by any persuasions of mine. It is the natural
outgrowth of your husband's gratitude and your husband's love.
The first words he said to me, when he was able to speak, were
these: 'If I live to return to England, and if I go to Valeria,
do you think she will forgive me?' We can only leave it to you,
my dear, to give the answer. If you love us, answer us by return
of post.

"Having now told you what he said when I first informed him that
you had been his nurse--and remember, if it seem very little,
that he is still too weak to speak except with difficulty--I
shall purposely keep my letter back for a few days. My object is
to give him time to think, and to frankly tell you of it if the
interval produce any change in his resolution.

"Three days have passed, and there is no change. He has but one
feeling now--he longs for the day which is to unite him again to
his wife.

"But there is something else connected with Eustace that you
ought to know, and that I ought to tell you.

"Greatly as time and suffering have altered him in many respects,
there is no change, Valeria, in the aversion--the horror I may
even say--with which he views your idea of inquiring anew into
the circumstances which attended the lamentable death of his
first wife. It makes no difference to him that you are only
animated by a desire to serve his interests. 'Has she given up
that idea? Are you positively sure she has given up that idea?'
Over and over again he has put these questions to me. I have
answered--what else could I do in the miserably feeble state in
which he still lies?--I have answered in such a manner as to
soothe and satisfy him. I have said, 'Relieve your mind of all
anxiety on that subject: Valeria has no choice but to give up the
idea; the obstacles in her way have proved to be
insurmountable--the obstacles have conquered her.' This, if you
remember, was what I really believed would happen when you and I
spoke of that painful topic; and I have heard nothing from you
since which has tended to shake my opinion in the smallest
degree. If I am right (as I pray God I may be) in the view that I
take, you h ave only to confirm me in your reply, and all will be
well. In the other event--that is to say, if you are still
determined to persevere in your hopeless project--then make up
your mind to face the result. Set Eustace's prejudices at
defiance in this particular, and you lose your hold on his
gratitude, his penitence, and his love--you will, in my belief,
never see him again.

"I express myself strongly, in your own interests, my dear, and
for your own sake. When you reply, write a few lines to Eustace,
inclosed in your letter to me.

"As for the date of our departure, it is still impossible for me
to give you any definite information. Eustace recovers very
slowly; the doctor has not yet allowed him to leave his bed; and
when we do travel we must journey by easy stages. It will be at
least six weeks, at the earliest, before we can hope to be back
again in dear Old England.

"Affectionately yours,

"CATHERINE MACALLAN."

I laid down the letter, and did my best (vainly enough for some
time) to compose my spirits. To understand the position in which
I now found myself, it is only necessary to remember one
circumstance: the messenger to whom we had committed our
inquiries was at that moment crossing the Atlantic on his way to
New York.

What was to be done?

I hesitated. Shocking as it may seem to some people, I hesitated.
There was really no need to hurry my decision. I had the whole
day before me.

I went out and took a wretched, lonely walk, and turned the
matter over in my mind. I came home again, and turned the matter
over once more by the fireside. To offend and repel my darling
when he was returning to me, penitently returning of his own free
will, was what no woman in my position, and feeling as I did,
could under any earthly circumstances have brought herself to do.
And yet. on the other hand, how in Heaven's name could I give up
my grand enterprise at the very time when even wise and prudent
Mr. Playmore saw such a prospect of succeeding in it that he had
actually volunteered to help me? Placed between those two cruel
alternatives, which could I choose? Think of your own frailties,
and have some mercy on mine. I turned my back on both the
alternatives. Those two agreeable fiends, Prevarication and
Deceit, took me, as it were, softly by the hand: "Don't commit
yourself either way, my dear," they said, in their most
persuasive manner. "Write just enough to compose your
mother-in-law and to satisfy your husband. You have got time
before you. Wait and see if Time doesn't stand your friend, and
get you out of the difficulty."

Infamous advice! And yet I took it--I, who had been well brought
up, and who ought to have known better. You who read this
shameful confession would have known better, I am sure. _You_ are
not included, in the Prayer-book category, among the "miserable
sinners."

Well! well! let me have virtue enough to tell the truth. In
writing to my mother-in-law, I informed her that it had been
found necessary to remove Miserrimus Dexter to an asylum--and I
left her to draw her own conclusions from that fact,
unenlightened by so much as one word of additional information.
In the same way, I told my husband a part of the truth, and no
more. I said I forgave him with all my heart--and I did! I said
he had only to come to me, and I would receive him with open
arms--and so I would! As for the rest, let me say with
Hamlet--"The rest is silence."

Having dispatched my unworthy letters, I found myself growing
restless, and feeling the want of a change. It would be necessary
to wait at least eight or nine days before we could hope to hear
by telegraph from New York. I bade farewell for a time to my dear
and admirable Benjamin, and betook myself to my old home in the
North, at the vicarage of my uncle Starkweather. My journey to
Spain to nurse Eustace had made my peace with my worthy
relatives; we had exchanged friendly letters; and I had promised
to be their guest as soon as it was possible for me to leave
London.

I passed a quiet and (all things considered) a happy time among
the old scenes. I visited once more the bank by the river-side,
where Eustace and I had first met. I walked again on the lawn and
loitered through the shrubbery--those favorite haunts in which we
had so often talked over our troubles, and so often forgotten
them in a kiss. How sadly and strangely had our lives been parted
since that time! How uncertain still was the fortune which the
future had in store for us!

The associations amid which I was now living had their softening
effect on my heart, their elevating influence over my mind. I
reproached myself, bitterly reproached myself, for not having
written more fully and frankly to Eustace. Why had I hesitated to
sacrifice to him my hopes and my interests in the coming
investigation? _He_ had not hesitated, poor fellow--_his_ first
thought was the thought of his wife!

I had passed a fortnight with my uncle and aunt before I heard
again from Mr. Playmore. When a letter from him arrived at last,
it disappointed me indescribably. A telegram from our messenger
informed us that the lodge-keeper's daughter and her husband had
left New York, and that he was still in search of a trace of
them.

There was nothing to be done but to wait as patiently as we
could, on the chance of hearing better news. I remained in the
North, by Mr. Playmore's advice, so as to be within an easy
journey to Edinburgh--in case it might be necessary for me to
consult him personally. Three more weeks of weary expectation
passed before a second letter reached me. This time it was
impossible to say whether the news were good or bad. It might
have been either--it was simply bewildering. Even Mr. Playmore
himself was taken by surprise. These were the last wonderful
words--limited of course by considerations of economy--which
reached us (by telegram) from our agent in America: